


(A Not So) Silent Night

by ColtsAndQuills



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Demon!Dean, Fluff, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:15:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2853800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColtsAndQuills/pseuds/ColtsAndQuills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Day, and Demon!Dean may be missing Sammy more than he wants to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(A Not So) Silent Night

“The King of _Hell_ , getting sappy over Christmas? Bit nostalgic of you, old man.”

Crowley had been seated on a bench in an empty town green for the last hour. It was late in the evening, and far too cold for any humans to be about. Also, there was the fact that it was Christmas Day.

Dean dropped down beside him, his warm breaths showing in ghostly puffs and smelling of whiskey.

“Just because I’m a demon doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the beauty you people create from time to time,” Crowley remarked, never removing his eyes from the small strings of white lights that illuminated dark branches lining the walkway. There was nothing special about the decorations. Thousands of towns looked the same at this very moment, just as thousands of towns had looked the same hundreds of years ago. Only when Crowley was a child, the night had twinkled with the gentle light of candles rather than the cool glow of these tiny glass bulbs. Back then, he could really feel the cold. Now, he could only miss the warmth.

Dean snorted. “My people are _your_ people these days, if you haven’t noticed.” The young man wore the smile of an angel but his eyes turned coal black with the words.

But Crowley wasn’t convinced. Dean could pull his supernatural parlor tricks all he liked, could revel in his nights of rightly deserved debauchery, but more of the righteous man remained in there than Dean realized. Or, perhaps, admitted to.

“Apologies. So easy for this _old man_ to forget,” Crowley replied, nonplussed. In fact, though he would never admit it, he enjoyed the way the former hunter would banter with him. However, the name calling reminded him of another — and for not the first time, he wondered if Dean was using him to fill the place of someone else. “I would have thought you’d be drowning yourself in Christmas cheer at least until closing time. What brings you out here?

Dean chuffed and leaned back, stretching out his long legs before him. “That chick going by Candy? Figured I’d show her how appreciative I was of the holidays. Said how much I loved sucking on a sweet piece of peppermint.”

“And?”

“She gave me a candy cane and told me where I could shove it.” Dean’s smile turned crooked as he rubbed his cheek where, no doubt, a handprint had blazed not soon before. He also pulled from his coat pocket the candy in question, still pristine in its wrapper, and wagged it at Crowley.

“I’ll pass,” the king said dryly.

Silence stretched between them, the kind Crowley could easily settle into on this particular evening, but Dean seemed unsettled with the tranquility. His stare kept darting to the town’s Christmas tree. His eyes would linger there long enough for the rainbow-colored lights to reflect in the green of his gaze, but then swiftly move to darker corners of the park. He didn’t seem to notice that his hands were agitatedly twisting at the candy cane until it broke with a snap.

“This is boring,” he griped, tossing the peppermint shards in the direction of the tree. “Come on! It’s Christmas, man! We should be doing something.”

Crowley looked at Dean in that measured way of his that even now, though they were technically on the same side, made the Winchester wonder what the demon was truly thinking.

“So, tell me a story about one of your Christmases,” Crowley said.

“What?”

“Tales around fireplaces and stockings, friends and family at hand. We may be lacking a few of the amenities, but humor me. Call it my present.”

“Yeah. Hate to break it to you, but my childhood wasn’t exactly filled with fuzzy stockings and sugarplums.” He pulled up the collar of his coat, though Crowley knew it wasn’t the chill that had Dean covering up.

“There must be something. If there was nothing but hate and misery in your life and Sam’s, there’s no way you would have fought so hard to keep him alive.” Crowley turned away, looking back to the lights. He gave Dean his time, because he knew it was the best way to get what he wanted.

Sure enough, it didn’t take further coaxing. Dean could ignore his brother all he wanted to, but Sam was always there, his memory always shouting for him at the back of his mind.

“Most of the time, Dad was too busy to deal with Christmas. Hunters don’t get off for the holidays,” Dean began. From the corner of his eye, Crowley watched the way he was working hard to put on an air of indifference.

“But every now and then… I don’t know. Maybe he noticed how big Sam was getting. Or saw some family shopping with their kids, and it reminded him that he had some of his own. Whatever it was, one year, he really tried to do right.

“So he packs us up and brings us over to Bobby’s place. We were young, then, and didn’t know him too well, but what we did know was there was a Christmas tree and lights and home cooked food.”

Dean licked his lips, started to smile, remembering the taste of that Christmas turkey. It was his fifth ever, and eight-year-old Sam’s first.

“Well that night, Sammy and I are curled up on this old couch, buried beneath a ton of blankets because that place always seemed to have a draft. I’m dead to the world when he grabs my shoulder. Even at that age, it didn’t take more than a whisper to wake me straight up. Now my heart is beating a mile a minute, expecting God knows what kinda nightmare, so it takes everything I’ve got to not burst out laughing when I see what Sam is flipping out about.”

Dean’s smile bloomed into a wide and very sincere grin.

“There in the dark, swearing under his breath like a sailor every time he stubs his toe or bangs into some furniture, Bobby’s trying to set up some presents under the tree. And the best part — he’s dressed head to toe like Santa Claus, floppy hat and everything.

“Sam’s next to me wide-eyed and shaking, and I think the kid’s excited to see Santa in the flesh. I mean, what kid wouldn’t be, right? So I nearly piss myself when he suddenly jumps up, screaming at the top of his lungs. Next thing I know, he’s pulled a bottle of holy water out from under his pillow and this little Swiss Army knife Dad gave him for his birthday. He goes right for Bobby, swinging and splashing, and soon everybody's shoutin', the tree's falling, presents are flying everywhere."

The story broke apart under the strong, sweet rumble of Dean's laughter. By the time he composed himself enough to continue, he had to wipe away a tear at the corner of his eye.

"The best part..." Dean’s shoulders quivered as he nearly started up again at the memory. “The best part is when Dad runs in. He throws the light on, takes one look at three of us tangled up in lights, Sam pelting Bobby with ornaments and me trying to get out from under the tree, and starts laughing his ass off. I’ve never seen Bobby so pissed in my life.”

When Crowley chuckled, Dean looked up, startled, as if he had forgotten who he was sharing the memory with. His radiant smile dimmed, not fading completely, but pulled into a soft, controlled smirk.

“Now your turn.”

Crowley regarded Dean cynically, his light laughter silenced.

“Hey, I gave you what you wanted. Only fair. It is Christmas, after all.”

Dean didn’t believe Crowley would go with it. He had been hanging with the King of Hell for months, and while good times were had, he had hardly learned a thing about the demon in their time together.

“Very well. I was six years old. My village was holding a Christmas play, a Nativity scene. The brat who was scheduled to play Mary took ill — pneumonia, or who knows what — and my mother forced me to take the role so that she could steal from the church collection boxes while everyone was distracted. I was a ginger. And for some godforsaken reason, they had Mary dressed in pink.”

He finished the story in one breath, and Dean merely stared, lips tight.

“That’s the end of the story. And if I ever hear of you sharing it, I’ll rip your tongue out and gift it to that stripper you harassed.” Crowley leveled his eyes with Dean’s. “Merry Christmas.”

The stillness of the night was broken by tiny fluffs of white. They spotted the black sky, glittered in the lights, slowly turning the simple decorations and bare sidewalks into a glimmering landscape. Dean raised his hand and caught one of the drifting snowflakes. When he pulled back his fingers, his palm now empty, the snow melted away, he smiled mysteriously.

“Merry Christmas, Crowley.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
